Christchurch used to be the centre of my eN-Zed and not in an epicentre sort of a way; more like in a the-Sun’s-the-centre-of-the-universe way. My Christchurch was before we all knew about epicentres and magnitudes and red stickers and liquefaction, when the Dux was still de Lux and QEII had a hydroslide and the Square had Chancery Lane and a Cathedral and a Violin Lady.
My Christchurch was half a lifetime ago when you could convince the French Bakery people to sell you 3 chocolate eclairs for a dollar because it was just a few minutes before closing time. And a dollar was a piece of paper not a milk token. It was when Howard Morrison performed in the Christchurch Town Hall, opposite the flower clock. It was when Canterberry’s red and black footy jerseys were just red and black. And footy was played at Lancaster Park and no matter how much some corporate pays, it’ll only ever be Lancaster Park.
Back in my day (eek, did I just use ‘that’ phrase?), there was a souvlaki shop that sold such good souvlakis, and baklava too, that no one had to go to Greece on their OE because the real thing had come to us. Although for fine dining in my Christchurch there was only one place to go – Theos, on Riccarton Road. He sold fish or chips or fish and chips. And only ever wrapped in The Press and the aroma and anticipation was glorious. There were tea rooms still; almost no cafes and so no cupcakes groaning beneath a Mt Sefton-sized pile of butter cream, no paninis and definitely no cronuts.
It’s hard to remember Hagley Park as the almost perfect place for running. Was I ever that young and fit? It was flat and there were shaded paths along the Avon. A leisurely day out could be a bike ride to Sumner beach or a bus ride to Lyttleton. A full-on adventure meant Akaroa or Rangiora or maybe Arthur’s Pass.
And Christchurch had the movie theatre that showed Chariots of Fire with the sound track by Vangelis, you know the one.
Christchurch’s museum had the Massey Ferguson that Ed Hillary used to plough a few paddocks in the Antarctic but mostly it just had boring old stuff. For the seriously interesting old stuff, we went to Rutherford’s teeny tiny room at the Arts Centre where there was a food fair on Sundays, for a few sticks of chicken satay in peanut sauce. So exotic. My Christchurch had an international airport but I didn’t understand why because with souvlakis and baklava and satays and chocolate eclairs why would anyone ever need to go anywhere? The only seriously-far-away place worth going to was Invercargill and only a fool would fly when they could take the Southerner, which stopped at the Dunedin Railway Station where passengers could get a brown paper bag of Jimmy’s pies.
eN-Zed 